


The Tender Trap

by apliddell



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A Case of Identity, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fake Relationship, First Kiss, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Ginger Sherlock, Humor, John's baths, Johnlock - Freeform, Love Confessions, M/M, Post Mary, Practice Kissing, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, pretend engagement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-21 19:26:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18146417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apliddell/pseuds/apliddell
Summary: Sherlock and John go undercover to protect a client who's participating in a cutest couples competition.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Loudest_Subtext_in_Television](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loudest_Subtext_in_Television/gifts).



> If you think this fic is kind of meta, lean into that.

“Well I’m off to work,” I lingered in the sitting room, my hand on the doorknob of the front door. “There’s toast for you under the tea towel by the French press and coffee as well. In the French press, obviously. I reckoned you’d want coffee and not tea, as we’re out of milk. I’ll get some on my way home. Be back around six. And erm.” I cleared my throat, “I think I fancy going for a pint tonight. Maybe you’d like to come for a drink with me?” 

 

Sherlock was on his back on the sofa, his knees raised, his torso sagging toward the edge so that his head dangled, his hair on end. 

 

“Sherlock? Did you hear me?” 

 

Sherlock blinked and looked up at me, “John?”

 

“Why’re you upside down?”

 

Sherlock rubbed his floppy curls, “Helps me to think.”

 

“Does it? Well, it’s better than a nicotine habit.”

 

Sherlock smiled, “Indeed. Do we know any women who don’t hate me? Apart from Mrs Hudson, I mean. Don’t think she’d be. Plausible. Not to be ageist.”

 

I frowned, “Who don’t hate you?” 

 

“Yes, I need a date for the weekend. Well. A fiance, actually.”

 

I stepped back, alarmed, “You. What?”

 

Sherlock looked up at me thoughtfully, “Molly’s right out, I suppose. My fault.” 

 

“Sherlock. Help me out here. What the hell are you talking about?”

 

“I need to infiltrate-”

 

“Oh!” I laughed with relief. “For a case.”

 

Sherlock’s forehead creased, “Ye-es? For a case, John, obviously.”

 

“Well you can’t blame me for being a bit surprised to hear you suddenly recanting your position on. Yknow being married to your work.”

 

Sherlock took no notice, “We’ve a new client. I interviewed her yesterday while you were at,” he rolled his eyes up and sighed heavily, “ _ work _ . She and her fiance have been selected to participate in competition on a television special hosted by a bridal magazine to win a free wedding, and she’s been getting anonymous death threats since she was selected.”

 

“Jesus.”

 

“Yes. Well. I’ve decided I’d be best placed to investigate if I entered the competition. The producer’s already okay’d it--obviously hoping for a sensational angle when they air the special about the competition on telly.  Still one doesn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Anyway they’d need to announce the addition of a fourth couple by tomorrow, so. Do we know any women who don’t hate me? Preferably dab hands at subterfuge.”

 

“Erm. Hmm.” I zipped my jacket, “I’ll have to think on that. By the way, you still haven’t answered my question.”

 

Sherlock squirmed himself back onto the sofa and sat up, “Question?”

 

“Want to come out for a drink with me tonight? Or will you be investigating?”

 

Sherlock considered, “I suppose I can finish up with my preliminary research while you’re at work.” 

 

“Good,” I opened the door. “Bye for now. See you tonight.”

 

“You see me every night, John,” Sherlock called after me. “We live together.” 

 

…

  
  


When I arrived home in the evening, I was rather surprised to find Sherlock ready to go out. Fully dressed, freshly showered and shaved, and smelling expensive. 

 

“You’re ready,” I hung my jacket on the hook near the door. 

 

“I’m ready,” Sherlock agreed, getting up from his chair and taking my jacket down again. 

 

“I was sure I was going to have to chivy you off the sofa.” 

 

“I am occasionally capable of accurate timekeeping, John,” Sherlock shook my jacket at me, holding it out for me to get back into. 

 

“Hang on, let me have a wash and get changed. I don’t want you putting me to shame tonight.” 

 

Sherlock hung up my jacket and smiled after me as I made my way to the stairs up to my bedroom, “Perish the thought.” 

 

…

 

“Why’re you looking at me like that?” I asked Sherlock as he handed over the first round. 

 

“Like what?” Sherlock looked me up and down, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. 

 

“I know you know you’re doing it. You’re deducing me,” I sipped my beer. “Out with it, then. What’ve you deduced?”

 

“Nothing, actually.” Sherlock frowned, “I can’t make you out at all.”

 

“Really?” I looked down at myself as if it might be obvious as a stain on my shirt what had Sherlock so confused. 

 

“Mmm,” Sherlock sipped his own drink. “You’re dressed for a date. Every indication is there.” 

 

I grinned, “Every indication, mm? Such as?”

 

Sherlock nodded and ticked points off on his fingers as he listed them, “You’re wearing your favourite shirt. Your cologne, those chukka boots that make you a tiny bit taller, that,” with just a hint of disdain, “matching suede jacket you’re so fond of. You even pinched a bit of my hair product. But you’re not on a date; you’re just sat in a bar with me before your back starts to hurt from sitting on a stool, and you start complaining you want to go home. 

 

“Unless you’ve brought me along with you in some sort of misguided attempt at blokiness with the idea I might help you pull.” He shook his head, “Which also doesn’t make sense, as there’s a woman over there near the dart board who’s been looking over at you so often that it’s a marvel she’s not yet had someone’s eye out. Anyway, you’ve been focussed on our conversation since we’ve got here, and not looking about to see who’s keen.”

 

I laughed, “Definitely not misguided blokiness. No point in trying to get you to help me pull, even if you would, which I know you wouldn’t, stubborn. Women always think we’re a couple.”

 

Sherlock shrugged, “Exactly. You make no sense.”

 

“Well maybe I asked you to come out with me, because I thought we’d enjoy it. Because dnno if you’ve noticed, or maybe it’s one-sided, but I think we’ve got a bit of a rapport. And I don’t like going places with you when you look all handsome and cool and I look all. Cardigan-y, like I’m your dad.” 

 

Sherlock scoffed, “I like the cardigans better than that dreadful jacket, John. And you’re barely six years older than I am. You’ve never looked like my dad.” 

 

I took the jacket off, “Better?”

 

“Better,” Sherlock sipped his drink. 

 

I sipped also, “So. How was your day? Did you think of a woman who doesn’t hate you?”

 

Sherlock shrugged and shook his head, “Not really. No one who could credibly pretend to be my fiance, anyway. I’ll have to come up with another plan, I suppose.” 

 

I gave his stool leg a sympathetic kick, “Bad luck.” 

 

“I’ll think of something else. I’m good at thinking.”

 

“You are that.” There was a sort of tingling happening in my brain, and I finished my drink while I waited for it to take shape. “I think I’m having an idea.”

 

“Are you?” Sherlock sipped his drink. “Perhaps it’s only a fart.”

 

I snorted, “Hilarious. I’ll tell it you anyway, because I’m that generous.” 

 

Sherlock sat back, arms folded, eyebrows raised, “Go on.”

 

“I don’t hate you.” 

 

“No…” 

 

“So I could be your. Pretend fiance.” 

 

Sherlock’s eyebrows met his hairline, “Could you?”

 

I caught eyes with the bartender and gestured for another round, “Yeah, I could, actually. Is there anyone else who might even possibly sort of be plausible?” the last in a rather broad imitation of Sherlock. 

 

Sherlock sort of glared, “No, I am very objectionable and people dislike spending time with me.” 

 

Well that was rather embarrassing, “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

 

“Mm,” Sherlock finished off his first pint in time for the arrival of his second. 

 

“Really, though. I could do it. And it’d be handy to have me nearby in case of any. Yknow. Rough stuff.” 

 

“Rough stuff,” Sherlock repeated, licking a bit of foam from his lip. 

 

“Well,” I said defensively. “It gets rough sometimes, doesn’t it!”

 

Sherlock nodded concession, “It does.” And somehow that was that. 

 

…

  
  


When we’re back home in 221B, John goes into the kitchen and returns a moment later with two rather overfull glasses of water. He sits across from me in his chair and hands one of the water glasses to me. 

 

Realise am parched as soon as the glass lands in my hands, “Cheers.” 

 

John taps his glass against mine with a little nod (whoops spilled) and we glug in unison. 

 

“Mmm!” John sets his glass on a side table. “I’ve got an idea. Be right back,” he hurries off toward his bedroom. 

 

“All right,” drink a bit more water, then decide to change into my pyjamas while I wait for John. 

 

John’s back in his chair when I return to the sitting room in my pyjamas. He’s holding a lockbox on his lap. Not the one that contains his gun. A less familiar one. When I take my place across from him, John pulls a ring of keys out of his pocket and unlocks the box. I lean forward to look inside. John nudges aside his passport, a plump envelope sealed with cellotape (letters and probably photographs, going by the shape of it)(try and ignore the little sting of curiousity and jealousy), a battered watch with a broken band, and finally unearths a small cube-shaped box, covered in worn, very dingy maroon velvet. 

 

John holds the box out to me, “Got this after Mum died. It belonged to her dad. It’s just catching dust up there, so you may as well borrow it for a bit.”

 

Take the box and open it, knowing what it is before I see it. Still startles me when I do. It’s a ring. An old-fashioned silver wedding ring, with an engraved floral design (brief flash of curiousity about the man it belonged to). Almost certainly too small but decide to try it anyway, prepared to hand it back to John when it won’t pass over my knuckle with my thanks for the thought and his generosity. 

 

It fits perfectly. Remove it at once, shove it back in the box and try and give it back to John, “I can’t take this.” 

 

John gently pushes the box back to me, “I’m not giving it to you, but don’t you think it’s stupid to buy a ring just for this? You’ll give it back when we’re through.”

 

Logical, “All right.” 

 

John nods again, satisfied, “Good. And I think,” he pauses as he stands and goes to his desk. John returns a moment later with a notepad and two pens. He hands a pen to me and settles back in his chair. “If we’re going to do this, we need to. Do it properly. Work out a history. And some er. Rules.” 

 

Frown, “A history? Our history is. Our history. Why should we change it? Won’t that overcomplicate things?”

 

John rubs his hair and half-laughs, “Right but we’re not actually a couple, so we probably ought to weave that in, yeah? When did we start going out? Who asked who? Where did we have our first kiss? Who proposed? They’re going to expect us to know all that, and if we stumble over it or we give different answers, we’re rumbled. So we’ve got to work it out in advance.”

 

“Do people really expect couples to keep track of all that?”

 

John smiles tenderly (have to look away; pretend to take an interest in the pen he’s given me), “Well not like. On a spreadsheet. But people remember because they care.”

 

“Oh.” 

 

“So,” John holds his pen poised over his pad and looks at me, “When did we start going out?”

 

Shift a bit in my chair, “It would have been. After Mary.”

 

“Well yeah,” John’s ears are getting pink. “Maybe something a bit more specific? Was it before I moved back in or after?”

 

Lick my lips, then reach for my glass and swallow the last of the water, “Before. You. You split up with Mary because. She thought you saw too much of me, like your other girlfriends. And you reckoned she was onto something and decided to give it a go.” 

 

“Mm,” John nods and bows his head low over the pad, writing busily, “Good. Erm. First kiss? Where were we? Who initiated?”

 

“Barts morgue. I did.”

 

John snorts, “Very funny. We can’t do joke answers, all right. Let’s say. You initiated and we were. Here.”

 

“Well that’s not very romantic. Just here? Were we doing laundry? Bickering about who’s going to put the rubbish out?”

 

John laughs, “You’re the one who had us snogging over a corpse. Anyway, it can be romantic if you say it right. Here’s where we. Well you know. It’s our roots, isn't it?” 

 

Consider that, “All right.”

 

“We can always play shy if it gets too. Personal. Right, okay. That’s first kiss sorted. Who proposed?” 

 

Wave a hand, “I did the first kiss; you can propose.” 

 

“Ha, thanks,” John looks up from the pad and taps his pen against his knee. “How’d I do it? Did we go someplace romantic? Did I make a speech?”

 

Shake my head, “No, it was during a case. A chase. We got him and you just blurted it out. I didn’t believe you really meant it until you gave me the ring later on. You’re impulsive that way.” 

 

John nods and scribbles, his face hidden again, “That’s why you love me, I suppose.” 

 

Scuff my sock against the carpet, “Yes.” 

 

We are silent. John doesn’t raise his face. 

 

“Erm,” clear my throat. “You said something about rules.”

 

“Right,” John turns a leaf in the notepad. “Rule one, personal space.” 

 

“John, I don’t think this is going to be convincing if we’re not allowed to touch-”

 

“I didn’t say not allowed to touch,” John interrupts. “Just. Respectful, all right? Don’t drag me around by the hand like a puppy on a leash just because you’re suddenly holding my hand, all right? And. Over the clothes, if the situation calls for it.” 

 

“Oh. Yes, of course. Over the clothes.”

 

There’s a blush creeping over John’s face, “I know you get carried away with disguises sometimes, so. Just. Tasteful. And let’s not. No weird little persona, just because we’re pretending we’re engaged. We’ll be our proper selves.” 

 

“What a novel way you’ve chosen to let me know you think I’m a pushy, grabby, flouncing-”

 

“You’re  _ not _ ! But. I’ve seen you in disguise and sometimes you sort of. You act unlike yourself. Which usually makes sense in context, but it’s. Disorientating. So please don’t do it this time, because it’ll only confuse me and make it hard to keep up.”

 

“Oh.”

 

John nods, “Thanks.”

 

“I should tell you,” scuff my socks a bit more, “I entered under my first name. Legal first name, you know.”

 

John smiles (glance away again), “William. Your secret will be out.” 

 

Shrug, “It isn’t a secret, John Hamish. It’s my name. Only it doesn’t suit like Sherlock does, so I just. I stopped using it.”

 

John nods, “I like Sherlock better.”

 

“So do I. But you’ve made it a bit too much of a household word for it to pass unremarked on, and we’re ostensibly undercover. So. William.”

 

John grins, “I did? I think you had something to do with that.”

 

Wave carelessly, “Oh, a bit.”

 

“Someone’s fishing for compliments.” 

 

“Someone likes to scatter them about unbidden like confetti.”

 

John’s smile grows rather serious, “I’ve never met someone else who is so clearly doing exactly what they were meant for.” 

 

My face grows warm, “I. Thank you.”

 

John is quiet for a moment, “Can I call you Will? During the thing?”

 

“If you like.” Quite like the idea of a nickname from John. There aren’t any for Sherlock that aren’t dreadful, but Will is nice. 

 

“Good, I think I will, then. Okay,” John returns his attention to his notepad, “Rule two, don’t mention Mary.” 

 

That needs no elaboration, “Right.”

 

“Rule three, no disappearing.” 

 

“All of these rules seem to be directed at me specifically, even though this was your idea.”

 

John smiles and looks up at me, “I do trust you, only I think it’s a good idea to be straightforward about what’s going to annoy me right from the start.” 

 

Twiddle the pen, “That is a good idea.” 

 

“Yeah. Anyway, got any rules for me?”

 

Think on that for a moment, then shrug, “You don’t annoy me.” 

 

“Ha!” 

 

“Well, you ask me to clean things that don’t need to be cleaned and say nice things I don’t mean to people I don’t care about, and you’re resistant to me proofreading those stories you keep writing about me. And I. Wasn’t very fond of Mary. But I don’t expect any of those things to be more relevant than normal during this case.” 

 

John’s forehead creases in surprise, “I thought you liked Mary.”

 

“No, she was horrid to you.”

 

John cocks his head, his face softening into that painful tenderness again, “I didn't know you’d noticed.” 

 

Prickle of hurt at that, swallow my indignation (trauma response; mustn’t take it personally)(I should have  _ shown _ him I noticed)(mortifying), “I’m sorry. I should have said something.” 

 

John shrugs, “I probably wouldn’t have listened anyway.”

 

“I might’ve at least made myself a more inviting landing place.” You might have left her quicker (can’t say that). 

 

John looks down at the pad again, though he isn’t writing anything, “I knew you’d have me back when I was ready. You. You’ve always been plenty inviting. More than plenty.” 

 

Open my mouth and find I’ve nothing at all to say. 


	2. Chapter 2

I woke the next morning to the sound of Sherlock’s violin. The waltz he’d composed for my wedding. I lay in bed listening and wondering if I were being beckoned to until the music stopped.

 

In the sitting room, I found Sherlock pulling on his coat. 

 

“Am I running late?”

 

“Not at all. I’ve just some last minute preparation to attend to this morning. Breakfast for you in the kitchen. Well. Coffee and cold toast. I forgot to factor in the drinks from last night when I calculated how late you’d sleep.” 

 

I grinned, “How husbandly of you.”

 

“Getting into character.” Sherlock smiled and wound his scarf about his neck, “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.” 

 

“See you soon.” 

 

…

 

True to his word, Sherlock returned to the flat two and a half hours later. I was sat at my desk, fiddling about on my laptop, but I turned toward the sound of the front door shutting as Sherlock came in. 

 

“Oh my god! Your hair!” 

 

Sherlock’d had his hair cut close on the sides and left his curls long and floppy on top. More startlingly, he’d dyed it. 

 

“You’re ginger!”

 

“Auburn,” Sherlock ruffled his hair with one hand and tucked his chin in, “It’s my natural colour, actually. I brought in a photo from ten years ago, and they got it nearly exactly right.”

 

“Your natural colour,” I repeated. “I think I need to sit down.”

 

“You’re sitting down already.”

 

“Right.” It made his eyes look so bright blue and his face even younger and sweeter than usual. “I think I’d like to see that photo.”

 

“It’s only hair, John.” Sherlock tossed his head, “I know it looks stupid, but after the case is over, I’ll dye it back, and we can forget it ever happened.”

 

“I like it, actually. It suits you. Only, you know. You know someone for years, and you assume you know what they erm. Look like.” 

 

Sherlock ruffled his hair again, “You know much more important things about me, John.” He took his chair, and I got up from my desk and took mine. 

 

“I thought of something. While you were out. Something about the case.”

 

“Did you? Do tell.”

 

“We didn’t really. Erm.” I paused to cough into my fist, “We never really discussed if er. Kissing is on the table.” 

 

“Oh,” Sherlock wet his lips. “I suppose it. Probably ought to be. Verisimilitude. If you’re all right with that.” 

 

“Yeah, it’s fine. But er. I thought. Maybe we ought to. Try it out beforehand. Just to make sure there aren’t any surprises?”

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “Surprises.” 

 

“Just to get used to it! So we don’t look like we’ve never done it before. With each other, I mean.” 

 

Sherlock considered that, “To get used to it. John. Have you-”

 

“Yes,” I said quickly, squeezing my hand into a fist and edging it under my thigh. “I’m not doing you a list, though. No one you know.” 

 

“I didn’t ask for a list.” Sherlock leaned forward. “It’s. You’re right, we should practice. Do you want to. Try it now?”

 

“All right,” I stood and Sherlock stood also. He blinked down at me for a moment, waiting. “I’ll just,” I reached up and cupped his jaw, “Okay?” Sherlock nodded, so I drew his face toward me til I could feel his breath on my lips. I shut my eyes. I kissed him. A light, dry brush. I drew back, “Still okay?”

 

“I’m not made of cobwebs, John.” 

 

“I’m just trying to be considerate!” 

 

“Very considerate, John. You’re an exemplary pretend fiance.” 

 

I sighed, “Shall we try it again?”

 

Instead of answering, Sherlock leaned in and kissed me. His lips were moist and parted, and his tongue dabbed against my lower lip. I raised one hand to his waist and slid the other up his neck, roughing the silky ends of his newly shorn curls. Sherlock made a soft sound in his throat, and drew back suddenly. His pupils looked huge in his brilliant blue eyes, and his lip shone from its contact with mine. There were bright spots of pink spreading out from his cheekbones, and I could see his pulse at his throat. It made me feel sort of guilty looking at him. I stuffed my left hand into my pocket. 

 

Sherlock wiped the moisture from his mouth with his thumb, “I. Erm.”  

 

I cleared my throat but my voice still rasped when I spoke, “That’s. Probably enough practice for now.”

 

Sherlock nodded, “Yes, I. I think we’ll be able to muddle through if pressed.” He smoothed his hair. “I’m for a shower. I’ve got hair ends all down the back of my shirt and the itch’ll drive me out of my mind. Go and press your suit. The blue one, not the grey one. There’s a. Party thing we’ve got to go to. Be ready to leave at seven.” And he spun on the spot and hurried off to his bedroom without waiting for an answer. 

 

…

 

**_The Tender Trap, sponsored by Tender Magazine- Britain’s Cutest Couple’s Competition Weekend Itinerary_ **

 

_ 18 May Friday 20.00 Cocktail Reception-Meet the other contestants and enjoy drinks and canapes in the Asteroid Room at the luxurious Galaxy Hotel  _

 

_ 19 May Saturday 10.00-14.00 Wedding Fair hosted by Tender Magazine-Mingle with other engaged couples as you stock up on supplies and ideas and choose from over 100 vendors from all over Britain for your big day!  _

 

_ 19 May Saturday 15.00-17.00 Mystery Competition Number One _

 

_ 20 May Sunday 10.00 Mystery Competition Number Two  _

 

_ 20 May Sunday 14.00 Mystery Competition Number Three _

 

_ 20 May Sunday 18.00 Prize Giving and Closing Ball in the Moonbeam Ballroom at the Galaxy Hotel-Britain’s Cutest Couple will be announced by our surprise celebrity presenter! _

 

**_Please ensure you arrive promptly to all activities!_ **

 

...

 

Sherlock and I arrived to the little cocktail reception looking sharp enough to cut ourselves, if I do say so myself. Sherlock sidled up to one pair with a meaning look at me that I took to indicate that the lady was our client. I raised my eyebrows to ask if he wanted me to come over, but he shook his head. I shrugged and tried to catch eyes with the waiter passing round canapes, while Sherlock chatted to our client and her fiance. 

 

When I’d secured a little plate of snacks and a glass of wine, I heard Sherlock boom from across the room, “Oh you must meet my John!” He beckoned me without even looking in my direction, and I trotted up, hoping I didn’t look as tingly all over as that ‘my John’ made me feel. When I arrived at his side, Sherlock pressed a hand to the small of my back and dropped a kiss on my cheek, “John, darling, these are my new friends, Moira Sutherland and her fiance James Angel. Moira, James, this is my fiance, Doctor John Watson.” 

 

“Lovely to meet you,” Moira said.

 

“Likewise,” I answered with a little nod at each of them. “Sorry I can’t shake hands at the moment. Will’s always trying to introduce me to people while I’ve got my mouth full.”

 

“Just here for the food?” remarked James rather sulkily. “I’m with you, mate.”

 

“Oh you don’t fancy being on telly?” I offered Sherlock a cheese straw, and he took it and nibbled it daintily. 

 

James shrugged ruefully, “Oh who wants to look at this ugly mug?” He nudged Moira with his elbow, “Mind Moira more than makes up for me!” He wrapped an arm about her shoulders and squeezed her. 

 

Moira rather simpered, “Oh James.” She upturned her face, clearly expecting a kiss. 

 

James seemed not to notice, “I’m going to get a drink, babe. Want anything?” 

 

“Erm,” said Moira. But James had disengaged his arm and walked off toward the bar. 

 

“Oh,” Moira looked at Sherlock apologetically. “Sorry. I’ll.” She followed him. 

 

I looked up at Sherlock and opened my mouth, but he only shook his head slightly and said in a carrying voice, “I think I see a little tower of fairy cakes that way, John.” He offered his arm, “Shall we?”

 

…

  
  


“Feels a bit silly, don’t you think?” John slips our keycard into the lock on our hotel room door and unlocks it. 

 

“Mmm?” 

 

“Staying in a hotel when we only live twenty minutes away,” John steps to the side to let me into the room ahead of him. 

 

“Well, supposedly the contestants are from all over Britain, so they book accommodation at the hotel for everyone, including the locals. I think we’re the only proper locals, though. And we’re. Well, you know,” glance about to see if anyone’s overheard us nearly revealing ourselves, but the corridors are empty and silent. 

 

“I suppose that makes sense,” John follows me into the room and shuts the door. Bark my shins on the shoe rack in the entryway before I feel for the switch and flick on the lights. 

 

“Oh god. I suppose I should have expected this.” 

 

John looks over my shoulder into the room and snorts. It’s made up like a honeymoon suite. One huge bed covered in a plump purple satin duvet and sprinkled with rose petals. There’s a smallish fireplace with a low divan next to it and an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne rising from it. 

 

“Well,” he says presently. “It’s. They did say it’d be luxurious.” 

 

“I don’t imagine I’ll be sleeping all that much anyway,” I remark thoughtlessly, then whirl on John when he begins to giggle. “We’re  _ working _ , John! I meant because of the work!”

 

“Right, the work,” John sidesteps me and makes for the bathroom. He whistles from the bathroom doorway, “The tub’s about the size of our kitchen!”

 

“Oh for heaven’s sake, John. So easily impressed.”

 

John turns back to me and holds out one hand, “I can’t not take advantage; it’d be illegal. Lend me your cigarette lighter.”

 

“I don’t have it,” I pat the nicotine patch on my forearm through my jacket. “There’re probably matches, if they’ve got candles in the bathroom.”

 

“Oh, good thinking,” John’s already kicking off his shoes. He goes through to the bathroom and turns on the tap immediately, “Aha! You were right.” Friction sound of a match striking. Come and look into the bathroom. John’s hung his jacket on the back of the bathroom door and his shirt’s half unbuttoned. He’s sitting on the edge of the admittedly enormous tub, “Oh my god, it’s got a whirlpool function!” 

 

“You’re meant to be helping me, John!”

 

He grins over his shoulder at me and upends a tiny bottle of bubble bath into the filling tub, “Oh but I am helping you, Will darling. It’s just that your shenanigans hardly ever bring me into contact with luxury. Mud, fistfights, gunfire, yes. Enormous bathtubs and champagne and fairy cakes? No. Now go and get me a glass of that champagne.”

 

Huff, “These aren’t shenanigans, John.” But I go off obediently for John’s champagne. Get into my pyjamas before I bring it to him, and when I go back into the bathroom, John is in the tub, up to his chest in steamy, sweet-smelling foam. His eyes are shut, and he’s leaning back against the wall of the tub, wearing a beatific smile. Has it been so easy all along to make him happy? No, content and happy aren’t the same thing (are they?). 

 

Set the glass on the edge of the tub, and John opens his eyes, “Thanks. You’re good at this, you know.”

 

“What, fetching and carrying for you?”

 

“Fiance stuff. You’re very attentive. I wouldn’t have expected it, but you are.” 

 

Face is warm (hope I’m not blushing)(his eyes are shut anyway), “Haven’t I always been attentive?”

 

John laughs, “Right, I suppose you have. I really can’t accuse you of not paying me attention. I suppose I meant. Solicitous? I dnno, don’t mind me! Talking shite. I just meant.” He opens his eyes and smiles at me, “I had a nice time with you tonight.” 

 

Face burns hotter, “Thrill of the chase, et cetera et cetera.” 

 

John shuts his eyes and sinks chin deep into his bubbles, still smiling, “Is that what that is? I sort of thought. Well. I don’t know what I thought. I’m enjoying myself. Not only because of the bath. Here now you’ve got me gushing. I suppose you always do.” 

 

“I haven’t even solved anything yet.” 

 

“Mmm,” John feels along the edge of the tub for the glass of champagne and brings it to his lips for a sip. “What did you think of Moira and James? Bit weird, yeah?”

 

“You noticed.” 

 

“Learnt it from the best,” John sips again and opens his eyes. “So you do make something of them, then? I thought maybe I was imagining things. It isn’t criminal to be bad at love.” Raise my eyebrows at that. John frowns a bit, “Is that not what you noticed? He isn’t as good a fiance as you are, and you’re not even actually engaged to me.”

 

“That’s. How flattering,” realise I’m turning John’s ring round and round on my finger and clasp my hands (it wasn’t  _ meant _ to be flattering!). “You’re right. There is something off about them. I invited them to join us at the Wedding Fair tomorrow, so we’ll have a better chance to observe them. In the meantime, I’m going to have a snoop on Facebook.” 

 

John nods, “Good thinking. Every time you do that, it makes me really glad I’ve never had Facebook. Also the only person I actually want to share things with lives with me and does er. Everything with me.”

 

“Well,” rise to leave and linger on the threshold to finish my sentence. “Perhaps not everything.” 

 

…

 

When I came out of the bathroom, Sherlock was stretched out on the big pink bed. He was tapping away at his laptop, the ring he’d borrowed from me glinting in the lamplight with the nimble movement of his hands, a keen intensity evident on his handsome face. 

 

I sat down on the bed next to him, “How’s the snooping going?”

 

Sherlock smiled and carried on typing without looking at me, “When I’m being paid for it, it’s an investigation.”

 

“Must be going well if you’re making jokes.”

 

“Taking it one day at a time,” Sherlock answered primly. 

 

“Smug,” I tossed back the blankets and got into bed. “Do you need me?”

 

Sherlock patted my shoulder absently, “Go on and sleep. I can talk to your snores, if I need to.”

 

I snorted, “No midnight excursions on your own, mind. Wake me if you leave the hotel or go prowling about in the hotel for that matter.”

 

“Yes, bossy,” Sherlock patted me again. 

 

I smiled into my pillow and shut my eyes. For a few minutes, I only listened to the companionable clatter of Sherlock’s typing. 

 

Presently Sherlock paused in his typing, “Yes?”

 

I turned onto my side to face him, “Yes, what?”

 

“You’re thinking. I can tell by your breathing. You want to tell me something?”

 

“Mm, maybe? I’m. I don’t know that I. Know how to put it yet.” 

 

“Ah,” Sherlock shut his laptop with a little clack and leaned over to tuck it between the bed and his night table. “Well, when it comes to you.”

 

“Going to sleep?”

 

“Yes, may as well get a bit of sleep. Waiting for a few things to mature.” Sherlock tucked himself into bed. Once we were both under the blankets, I could feel the heat radiating off him. I wet my lips, feeling suddenly thirsty. Sherlock sighed and yawned, “Good night, John.”

 

“Good night.”

 

Sherlock clicked off the lamp. To my surprise, he drifted off well before I did. 


	3. Chapter 3

It isn’t real. It isn’t real. I know it isn’t real. 

 

Still, John’s palm is warm and soft and solid against mine and the occasional twitch of his thumb to stroke the back of my hand is so delicious that it quite tangles me up. Am I still investigating? Surely ought to know. I have grown distracted from eavesdropping on Moira and James. Have solved it last night already and am really only collecting a bit more context. Ostensibly. 

He took my hand as we strolled into the Fair, and I’ve been lost in it since. And now we’re falling too far behind Moira and James for me to meaningfully observe anything at all but when John presses my hand and stops walking, I halt as well and look at him expectantly. 

 

He smiles at me and holds out a pink rosebud that’s fallen from some display or other and tucks it into my jacket breast pocket. Fancy I can feel it through my shirt and jacket against my skin.

 

“It’ll clash with my hair,” I tell him. 

 

“It doesn’t though.” John takes out his phone and snaps a photo of me, then holds it out to me for inspection. Somehow he’s right. It doesn’t clash. 

 

…

 

“All right, everyone!” Natalie the presenter called to the audience as Sherlock and I took our seats on the stage. “Next pair up for the couples quiz are William and John!” she looked at Sherlock, “Now is it Will or is it William? Because I thought it was William, but I’ve only heard John call you Will.”

 

Sherlock looked at me and bounced an eyebrow before be replied, “John likes to say he calls me Will because of my, ah. Strength of character. Well actually I think his exact words were stubborn arse.” I grinned and shook my head at him, rather surprised at how easy it seemed to him to invent these little intimate details out of the air like that.

 

Natalie laughed, “Will it is then! All right. Will and John, I’ll just quickly explain how to play. I’ll ask a question and you both write down your answers on their boards. If you get the same answer, you score ten points! Are you ready?”

 

Sherlock looked at me and rubbed his hands together excitedly. It was hard to tell if he was actually excited or just playing. Might’ve been the same thing, come to that,  “Yeah, let’s do it!” 

 

“All right, keen! Good! Okay lads, first question.” She glanced at the card, then looked up and grinned at us, “Bit of a cheeky one, what is your fiance’s favourite part of your body? Will, you answer first, then we’ll have John.”

 

Sherlock began scribbling on his board straight away. 

 

“That’s a hard one,” I muttered, but my mic caught it, and the audience  _ oooo _ ’d at my accidental innuendo. I laughed rather awkwardly and after a moment’s consideration quickly jotted something down on my board. 

 

“Right, looks like you’ve both got something,” Natalie said. “Will, let’s see your answer.” 

 

Sherlock turned round his board to reveal the word ‘hands’ in his awful scrawl, “That says ‘hands’ if you can’t read my writing.” 

 

“Thanks, I couldn’t actually!” Natalie turned to me, “And John? Did he get it right?”

 

I flipped round my board to show I’d also written ‘hands’, “He did.” The audience cheered and clapped. “How’d you know?” I asked Sherlock. “You looked really confident.”

 

“I was confident,” Sherlock looked smug. “You looked right at my hands as soon as she asked the question.” 

 

I couldn’t help smiling, “Oh.” 

 

“Well done, Will!,” Natalie spoke over me, “All right, John same question. What is your fiance’s favourite part of your body?”

 

I looked at Sherlock carefully, but I couldn’t glean anything from him. After a moment, I just shrugged and wrote. I could hear the tap of Sherlock’s pen on his board as well. 

 

“All right John, go on then.” 

 

I flipped my board round, “‘Shoulders.’”

 

“Interesting,” Sherlock murmured. “Why shoulders?”

 

“Because you’re always grabbing onto them,” I paused and blushed as the audience whooped over that. 

 

“Well, I’ve got to catch hold of something when I want you to hurry up,” Sherlock said, spinning his board round. “But I’ve put ‘eyes’. They’re. Very blue.” 

 

“Awww,” said Natalie. “So we’ve got ten points so far. Not a bad start. Right okay moving along, next question is for Will. Will, where would John take you on your dream date?”

 

Again, Sherlock immediately began to write. I did also. Seemed obvious to me. 

 

“Okay, Will, what do you think? Where would John take you for your dream date?”

 

“Easy one,” Sherlock turned his board, “Angelo’s. It’s the restaurant where we had our first date.”

 

“Yeah,” I turned my board. “Pretty easy. Angelo’s.”

 

“That’s another ten points! We’re doing great here! Okay, John this next question is for you. What does Will do to cheer you up when you’ve had a hard day?” 

 

Another easy one. Sherlock and I began to write simultaneously and Natalie chuckled, “You two seem to be very in sync. John?” 

 

I turned my board, “He plays the violin for me.” 

 

Natalie looked at Sherlock, and he spun his board round, “Violin.” We grinned at each other, and the audience applauded. 

 

“Aren’t they adorable! And so cultured! Violin, wow. All right. Next question is for both at once, and we’ll see if you come up with the same answer. Final question gents, for twenty points. Why do you want to get married?” 

 

Sherlock frowned and tapped the board with his pen, “That’s a bit personal.”

 

“That’s sort of what we’re doing here,” Natalie said in a stage whisper, and the audience laughed. 

 

I tried to suppress a little shiver as I wrote my answer on the board. I glanced at Sherlock, but he was looking intently at his board, still writing. When his pen stilled, he looked up at Natalie. 

 

“Want to go first, Will?” 

 

Sherlock shook his head, “John first.”

 

Natalie laughed, “All right, then! John?”

 

“Right. Okay.” I knew it without looking, but I read from my board anyway, “‘I’ve always wanted to spend my life with him, so if I get to, I will.’”

 

“How sweet,” Natalie looked at Sherlock. “Will?”

 

Sherlock looked at me and turned his board, “‘To spend our lives together.’”

 

Natalie turned to the audience, blocking my view of Sherlock, “Well done Will and John! That’s fifty points for our first game, meaning they’re in second place! Will and John will be moving onto the second challenge tomorrow afternoon. But stick around, because in about fifteen minutes, we’ll be joined by our final couple James and Moira!” 

 

…

  
  


Sherlock turned to me as soon as we were off the stage, “We’ve got to intercept Moira and James!” he whispered. 

 

“What? Why? Is the person who’s been threatening her here?”

 

Sherlock looked grim, “Something like that, but there’s no time to explain. We can’t let them go on camera. Come on!” And he took me by the hand and towed me away. 

 

Near the ballroom where the quiz game was taking place, there was a meeting room, fitted up as a sort of green room, where the contestants waited til they were called up for their go at the games. We burst into the room to find Moira and James sitting on the sofa, waiting to be called into the quiz game. 

 

“Moira, you can’t go on television with James!” Sherlock announced as soon as he was over the threshold. 

 

James blanched, but Moira merely looked a bit surprised, “Why not?”

 

“Would you like to tell her, James? Or shall I?”

 

Moira looked at James, “What’s he talking about?”

 

James shrugged unconvincingly, “No idea.” 

 

“Ergh, we hardly have time for this!” Sherlock glanced backward toward the door, then saw that it had a lock and locked it, “Right! That should buy us a bit of time. I’ll tell all, then and James you can put me right if I go wrong, yes?” 

 

“I dnno what you’re talking about, mate,” said James with a little wobble in his voice. 

 

“Oh dear and I was hoping to bring you over to our side. Naive of me, I suppose. Take a seat, John. I’ll be a moment over this. And if you could pass me that bottle of water? My mouth is a bit dry from talking. Ah, thank you.” Sherlock sipped from the water, then set it down and clasped his hands under his chin, “Let’s see. Where to begin. I suppose it begins two years ago. Moira, James here worked with your brother Charlie. He borrowed a relatively large sum of money from Charlie. Something in the area of five thousand pounds?” Sherlock looked at James, who remained sulkily blank. Sherlock waved, “The precise number is not especially important. James borrowed some money from Charlie to try and start a small business, which was unfortunately unsuccessful. 

 

“Meanwhile, brother Charlie prospects also suffer after he loses his job, and he’s forced to return to the family home, where Moira has been living alone since the passing of their father a few years before the start of all this.” Sherlock looked at Moira, and she nodded. “Charlie finds himself pretty snug with all this free lodging and free housekeeping and never does seem to be able to find much in the way of work again. One little problem. Charlie doesn’t seem get on with Moira’s boyfriend. Not our friend James but his predecessor, who thinks Charlie ought to find himself a job and contribute to the household. Charlie doesn’t much like that. Ensconced as he is, he finds it a pretty easy matter to drive a wedge between Moira and her boyfriend until their relationship falls apart. 

 

“But now he’s worried. Will he have to go through all this song and dance every time Moira has a boyfriend? What if she wants to get married? Where does that leave Charlie? So. He devises a plan to invent a boyfriend who won’t come over all demanding or try and move in and force Charlie out. He invents a persona whom he calls James Angel.” Sherlock paused, “A little heavy-handed in my opinion, but we don’t all have the-” Sherlock caught my eye and trailed off. “But that hardly matters. Anyway, Moira, remind us how you met James?”

 

It took a moment for Moira to speak. She looked stunned, “Erm. I met him on Twitter.” 

 

“Exactly. So.” Sherlock paused again, looking thoughtfully at Moira. He sat down and lowered his voice, “I’m sorry. I’m being thoughtless. James Angel was invented by your brother to stop you finding a relationship and kicking him out. He forced his former colleague Wesley Smythe to play James with the promise that his debt would be forgiven if he did. 

 

“When you entered the contest, Charlie and Wesley decided that James would stage a fight during one of the games and leave you on the spot so that you’d be. Too embarrassed and heartbroken to pursue love again. Wesley himself sent the threats, because he wasn’t sure he’d have the nerve to go through with the plan when it came to the moment. Charlie doesn’t know about that bit.” 

 

Moira ground her jaw, her eyes were bright and her face was red with anger, “That’s. Monstrous.”

 

“I thought the telly thing was a bit far,” Wesley said uncertainly into the silence that followed. “I never would have actually hurt you. Nor would Charlie, not really. It started out as a joke, actually.” 

 

“It’s one of the worst things I’ve ever heard,” Sherlock agreed, taking no notice of Wesley.

 

“I can’t believe Charlie would do this! I’ll kill him!” 

 

“An understandable impulse but overall inadvisable,” Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card, which he handed over. “That’s my solicitor. Land them both in prison. I would be delighted to give evidence. They did quite a lot of their crimes over the internet, which means there’s loads of evidence. People will do crimes over the internet, as if no one will ever find out. Can’t think why they’d imagine something like that. Makes my job laughably easy, though.”

 

Moira took a shaky breath, “Yeah. There’s. Something in that. I quite like the sound of prison.” 

 

Sherlock produced another card and handed it to Moira, “This is contact information for my friend DI Hopkins with the Metropolitan Police. She’s just. Wonderfully thorough. You might give her a call.”

 

“Thank you,” Moira set her jaw. “I certainly will.” 

 

…

 

Come out of the shower in my pyjamas and dressing gown, feeling fresh and slightly too soft with lingering adrenaline still pricking in my blood. John is standing in parade rest by the window behind my music stand. Recollect I left sheet music there yesterday morning. The waltz. I know it by heart, of course. Still sort of irresistible looking at the music sometimes. Like nudging a bruise.

 

John turns toward me as I enter the room and steps toward me, and we meet in the middle. I can see he’s still fizzing from our case as well; his eyes are bright, and he wets his mouth eagerly, “I had a plan.”

 

“A plan, John?”

 

John nods, “Want to hear it? I think it would help.” 

 

“You think it would. Help?” 

 

John takes a deep breath, “Angelo’s? We could get a candle for the table. Seems like you like holding hands. Be a shame to. Stop.” John offers his hand as he speaks, and I take it and draw him to me and John lands in my arms with a delicious little giggle that sends a thrill skipping up me, “I want more of you.” 

 

Feel sort of. Uncorked, “Can I kiss you?”

 

John shines sweetly at me and raises his chin in invitation. 

 

I kiss him. 

 

John hums, strokes up my neck, rubs the shorn off ends of my curls (shiver).

 

My face is warm when we draw apart, “I’m in love with you.” 

 

John sighs and my own relief and eagerness are reflected back to me on his face, “Maybe we should sit down. I’m getting a bit lightheaded.” 

 

“Maybe we should lie down.” 

 

“I like that better,” John grins and nods, “Lead the way.” 

 

…

 

“It was difficult before, though, wasn’t it? I wasn’t imagining that?” John kisses my shoulder after I tug my shirt off overhead. John is already naked. Must be staring, as it takes a moment for me to think to answer him. 

 

“Not imagining,” I agree, leaning in for a kiss. 

 

“So then, why did it?...” John trails off in favour of kissing me. 

 

Brain goes rather fuzzy under his mouth on me. Can’t answer til he pauses, “John, I’m afraid I can’t manage this conversation concurrently with sex, so we’re going to have to decide which to pursue first.”

 

“Sex then,” John says at once and goes back to kissing. 

 

John eases me onto my back and trails kisses over my body with purpose as if he’s already plotted the course in his mind. Sigh, squirm, clutch at his shoulders (perhaps they are my favourite after all). John seems to know me so well already (or perhaps it’s that he is so ruthlessly thorough). Dizzingly hard by the time John tugs away my pyjama bottoms, and his mouth and hands draw a ferocious orgasm from me a very few minutes later. 

 

Sit up, still rather dizzy and grab at John. Turn him onto his side and tuck up against the back of him, wrap round him with my hips against his hips and my chin over his shoulder. Scrape his chest with my fingernails and squeeze his erection and his answering moan sends a little thrill vibrating through me. Kiss John as I stroke him. Neck, throat, jaw. Everywhere I can reach. His pulse thumps against my hands and my lips and when I nip at his throat, John comes over my fist with a groan that I can feel through my chest and belly. And then we are still and quiet together, waiting for our breath to slow. 

 

…

 

“Be honest, John,” Sherlock murmured against my chest. “Is it the hair?”

 

I laughed and pulled one of his curls, and Sherlock shivered so I had to do it again, “Maybe a bit. I really like the hair.” 

 

Sherlock sighed longsufferingly, “I knew it. Ah well. Here we are, nonetheless.”

 

“Here we are,” I kissed him. “It’s not the hair; it’s you. I wanted you before as well. For a long time. You do know that?”

 

Sherlock kissed my chest, “I suppose so.”

 

“I mean. I want more of you. I’ve wanted more of you for as long as I can remember. Going to bed with you. Making you entertain me in the bath. Kissing and holding hands and all that.” 

 

Sherlock hid his face against my chest as I spoke, “What a charming coincidence.”

 

I pet his hair, “Well we’ve always been so close to it, yknow? I don’t know why I always thought we erm. Didn’t know how to have that last little bit. I mean. We do know, don’t we?” 

 

“Yes,” Sherlock raised his chin for a kiss. “It seems we do.” 


End file.
